Managed (VIP 2)

Her mouth falls open as if I’ve slapped her. “Um…yes. Gabriel Scott. Everyone calls him Scottie.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.”

She leans in, her eyes wide and curious. “He, ah, gave you his first name?”

Is it some kind of dire secret? I’m veering back toward them being international spies. And I’m only half-joking. “Well, getting him to give me his name was like pulling teeth, but yes.”

This seems to placate her because she relaxes in her seat and, after ordering a pot of coffee, black, surveys me with a discerning eye.

“Would you like to view my portfolio?” I ask, handing over the thick leather case I brought along with me.

But she waves me off. “No need. I viewed your work before asking you here.”

“Of course.” Heat flushes my cheeks. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”

She touches my hand. “Don’t be. You survived the trip sitting next to Scottie. That’s the biggest trial by fire.”

I eye her warily. “Did you put me in that seat? I thought I’d been bumped, but now I’m not so sure.”

The waitress arrives with her coffee, and Brenna is quick to pour herself a cup.

“Of course I did.” She takes a sip and sighs with appreciation before turning her sharp gaze on me. “As an enticement to working for us. Not so you’d have to deal with him. I’m not cruel.”

“I didn’t realize it would be a cruelty.”

“Well, most people wouldn’t, until he opens his mouth and eviscerates a poor soul with a few words.”

I have to smile at that. “I don’t know if he even has to speak. That glare of his would probably do the trick.”

“But you survived,” she says again, staring at me as if I’m a rare bird.

A weird sort of protectiveness rises up in me. Not that Gabriel needs it, but I can’t stop myself from defending him. “I had fun.”

Her red brow wings up at that. “Fun?”

There’s so much skepticism in her voice, she’s practically choking on it.

“It was a lovely flight,” I assure. “Thank you for putting me in first class. I’ll never forget it.”

She clears her throat. “Yes, well, that’s…good. I’m glad. Ah, anyway, I figured Scottie would have that divider panel up before his fine ass hit the leather.”

I don’t mention the broken panel.

Brenna glances at her phone. “The guys are ready. Shall we head to the interview now?”

Nerves flutter to life in my belly. “Guys? There’s a group interviewing me?”

“More or less.” She gives me a small smile. “You’ll see. Come on. We have a private room set up.”

“Okay.” My legs are suddenly wobbly as I stand. “Is Gabriel going to be there as well?”

A small part of me doesn’t want him to witness this. I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate under his laser gaze. But the needier, base part of me wants to see him again. He’s familiar. And oddly, I feel confident when he’s around.

Brenna halts a step. “Yes, Gabriel will be there.” We walk a few paces before she glances at me from under her lashes. “Though, maybe call him Scottie from now on.”

“Why?” I don’t get the nickname or why someone like Gabriel would allow it. Scottie doesn’t fit him at all. Scottie is a dude who yells, “We need more time, Captain!” Not an impeccably dressed man who looks like a male model and speaks like an ornery duke.

Brenna’s heels click on the floor as she guides us to a back room. “It’s what everyone in the business calls him. Honestly, I haven’t I’ve heard anyone refer to him as Gabriel for years.”

I’m glad I didn’t tell her I also called him Sunshine. She’d probably up and die on me. Or maybe I’d lose the job. I decide not to talk about Gabriel aka Scottie any more than necessary from now on.

We enter a room, and a group of men turn our way en masse. My first thought is that maybe Gabriel and Brenna run a modeling agency, because they’re all gorgeous in their own way. But then I really look at them, and horror hits me with a cold slap. I know these guys. I know them well.

Kill John. The biggest rock band in the world. My eyes flit over them. Their expressions range from welcoming to mildly curious to sexually interested. Rye Peterson, the bassist, massively muscled and boyishly handsome, gives me an open grin. Whip Dexter, the drummer, nods politely. Jax Blackwood, the infamous guitarist and sometime singer is the curious one, though he doesn’t seem upset.

I shy away from his green gaze, feeling ill and unsteady on my feet.

Then there’s Killian James. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression. He stood as we entered, his head cocking as if trying to place me.

My heart starts to pound. Fuck. I need to get out of here.

I take a step back and collide with a body. The scent of expensive cologne and fine wool hits my nostrils.